


A Kind of Cruel

by dairyme



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, Pining, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Savoy, Self-Hatred, Sex, that pretty much sums it up thematically speaking, this is basically id fic let's be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3153326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/pseuds/dairyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There wasn’t even that great a resemblance, but it was enough that Marsac’s breath still caught on seeing him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind of Cruel

**Author's Note:**

> I realise this fic has the nichest of niche appeals. 
> 
> I wasn’t going to post it. Hell, I wasn’t even going to _write_ it. But you know how these things happen.
> 
> Ultimately I decided to put it up, because a) 2015 is apparently the year of posting my massive backlog of unposted fic, and b) just in case there’s anyone, other than me, in the Venn diagram of “people who like Aramis/Marsac” and “people who like fic about awful depressing sexual encounters with prostitutes”. If that’s you, well – you’re welcome. Let's be friends.

There wasn’t even that great a resemblance, but it was enough that Marsac’s breath still caught on seeing him.

He was some distance away, across the other side of the crowded room, and Marsac could not be sure how long he had been standing there: one leg crooked, boot resting casually against the wall, bottle in hand and seemingly alone. 

Marsac had been there for several hours, hiding away at a small table in the corner of the tavern. He had barely looked up in all that time, except to catch the attention of one of the girls and request another bottle of wine, but ever since a rare glance up had landed on the man he had found it difficult to look away. 

Even at this distance, and even with the dim light and Marsac’s less than sober condition, there was no further mistaking the man for anyone other than a stranger. Yet despite a few half-hearted attempts to return his gaze to the table, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from making the comparison, cataloguing the differences. The man wore a moustache and beard, but the cut was closer; he was slimmer overall, lacking the muscle definition of a soldier; his profile, when he turned his head to survey the room, was less handsome. But there was something…his complexion, of course, dark hair and eyes, but it was also a casual confidence in his stance, inviting and challenging at the same time; when he brought the rim of the bottle to his lips he tipped his head back in a way that suggested he expected to be looked at but did not require it. 

Marsac was so involved in his observation that he jolted in surprise when the man caught his eye and smiled.

The smile was wrong too – confident and attractive enough, but there was nothing like Aramis’s smile: slightly crooked, entirely wicked, and reaching all the way to his eyes. 

“Mind if I join you, monsieur?” 

The voice was not unpleasant, but unremarkable – far from the deep, melodic lilt of Aramis at his most playful. Marsac blinked himself out of his reverie, sat up straighter, and cleared his throat. “If you wish,” he said, forcing a polite smile. “Though I am poor company, I’m afraid.”

The man smiled again, and held his gaze, and his eyes really were the deepest brown. “I’m sure that can’t be true.”

Marsac looked at him too long, saying nothing, alcohol making his reactions slow. 

The man didn’t seem to mind. When he sat back in his chair, his knee knocked against Marsac’s under the table. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I only arrived in town today.” He shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of his bedraggled appearance. He had not taken the time to wash the dirt of the road from his face and clothes for a couple of days, and had not had a decent night’s sleep for weeks. 

The man’s expression softened into something approaching sympathy. “And already drowning your sorrows.”

Had he been at his best, Marsac might have considered it suspiciously forward of a person he had just met, but in his current condition he could not bring himself to care. He smiled grimly. “You have no idea.”

“Have you considered,” said the man, his voice soft but his gaze steady, “that there are ways other than drink to ease your troubles?” He rested his knee against the inside of Marsac’s thigh, deliberately this time, and kept it there.

Marsac couldn’t find the willpower to move away. It was pathetic, really, how suddenly and deeply he craved even such slight intimacy in that moment. He could already feel his heart speed up at the mere idea of more. “In truth,” he said, carefully, “I had not.”

The man’s smile widened into something warmer and darker. “Well, monsieur, if you _were_ to consider it,” he slid closer in his seat, ever so smoothly, the press of his knee moving up the inside of Marsac’s thigh, “I keep a room here.”

This close, the differences were much starker, but so were the similarities. There could be no match for the expressiveness of Aramis’s eyes, but in the colour, and the intensity of the gaze…Aramis had a particular way of looking at him, just before they kissed, and this was not it, but he was reminded all the same. “Indeed.”

“And the rent is little more than what you would spend on wine, were you to stay at your table for the rest of the evening.”

That rather dented the illusion, though Marsac had known, really, that this would not be a seduction so much as a transaction. In his experience few men were so blatant, though it was possible that his own interest had been more obvious than he had realised. 

It had been rare for him to employ whores, and there was still a reluctance in him to do so now. Yet behind him stretched weeks of lonely nights, and ahead of him he could only see many more. If for this single evening he could feel something else – _anything_ else, beyond the hollow, aching monotony of the past few weeks – perhaps it would be worth it. 

He recalled, against his will, the last time he had touched – the last time he had been touched – and the warmth of Aramis’s lips in the chill night air, the shape of his body fitting against him, the beat of his heart underneath his palm. 

The man was still looking at him, expectant, though now also slightly wary, and Marsac was unsure how long he had allowed the silence to last. “I think,” he said, “I would be glad of the company.”

The room was small, the only furniture a cabinet against one wall and a bed beneath the window. The shutters were closed, and it was already lit with candles and the low-burning embers of a poky fireplace. Marsac thought it could not have been left unoccupied for long.

“You seem nervous.” The man had brought his bottle to the room with him, but placed it on the cabinet without taking another drink before turning to Marsac. His movements were smooth and calculated, and his voice had taken on a slight sing-song quality. “Have you been with a man before?”

Perhaps that was the key to this, to play a role, anyone but himself – a man in an unfamiliar town, taking the opportunity to try something new... “Yes,” he heard himself say.

The man smiled knowingly, pulling off his boots before approaching him.

“I apologise for…my appearance,” Marsac said. He kept catching glimpses of his mud-spattered shirt cuffs. He noted that there was no looking glass in the room, and that it was probably for the best. “I’ve had a long ride today.”

The man laughed at that, and it seemed authentic, as if Marsac’s comment had genuinely caught him by surprise. “You have nothing to worry about on that count, monsieur, but there is a basin there if you feel self-conscious.”

Marsac nodded and passed him without touching to reach the cabinet, on which there was a small wash bowl. He shrugged off his cloak – not even his, but one he had found abandoned over the back of a chair in a tavern a week ago, so little of what he had was really his anymore – and, finding nowhere better to put it, let it drop to the floor along with his sword and purse. 

He rolled up his sleeves and splashed water on his face. He had been hoping that the coolness of the water would help clear his head, but as he straightened he felt more disorientated than ever.

He looked up to see the man leaning against the cabinet beside him, holding out a cloth. Marsac accepted it, wiping his face and hands dry. 

“Better?”

“Thank you.” Marsac thought about touching him, but a particular slant of shadow, the play of the candlelight on the man’s cheekbone when he tilted his head, made him hesitate.

The man cocked his head further, and the semblance was gone. “What is it?”

“You…” Marsac was sober enough to know he shouldn’t answer, but not enough to stop himself doing so. “…remind me of someone I once knew.”

“Ah,” said the man, as if the tone of Marsac’s voice had told him everything he needed to know. He stepped into Marsac’s space, their bodies not quite touching, and looked up at him. He was shorter than Aramis by a couple of inches. “Well, it is his loss, I assure you.”

Marsac reached out to grab the edge of the cabinet to steady himself. He was sure the man would have noticed had he not chosen that very moment to lean in and press his mouth against Marsac’s neck. Or if he had noticed, he might have believed it to be this gesture that made his client’s limbs momentarily weak.

Once he had recovered himself enough to pay attention, he could not deny how good it felt to be touched. His skin was over-sensitive, each brush of lips sending a small shiver down his spine. He brought his hand up and ran it through the man’s hair; shorter than Aramis had worn it in recent times, but reminiscent of how it had been when they first met. Even when short Aramis’s hair had remained an unruly mess, regardless of what he did to it – either flattened oddly by his hat, or stuck up at comical angles when he woke in the morning. This man’s neater hair felt nothing like Aramis’s, but it still felt pleasant between his fingers. 

“You’ve no need to flatter me,” he said, unable to keep a defensive edge from his voice. 

The man pulled back to catch his eye. “I’m not.” He ran his hand from Marsac’s shoulder to the centre of his chest, fingertips teasing at the skin exposed by the open neck of his shirt. “Or if I am, that does not make what I say untrue.”

_“Stop that.”_

_“What?” Marsac looked over to where Aramis lounged on the bed. “I’m not doing anything.”_

_“You’re standing in a provocative manner.”_

_“I don’t believe I’m standing any differently to how I usually do.”_

_“It makes me want to ravish you.”_

_Marsac’s mouth went dry. “Flatterer,” he managed._

_“Maybe so,” said Aramis, stretching back against the pillows, “but that doesn’t make it any less true.”_

Marsac gasped and stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. The wary expression had returned to the other man’s face. “I’m…I’ve had quite a lot to drink.”

The expression settled into confident understanding. “Oh, you’ve no need to be concerned about that.” He stepped close again, wrapping one arm around Marsac’s waist and pressing his other hand lightly against his crotch. “I’ve had men in far worse states than you.”

At first Marsac thought the man was going to kiss him, and was unsure how he would react to that. But instead he turned his attention back to his neck, this time with a more direct sense of purpose, teeth scraping at the edge of his jaw in addition to lips and tongue. Marsac let his head sink forward, instinctively nuzzling at the man’s temple. He smelled of soap, mainly, undercut with smoke from standing near the fireplace either here or in the room downstairs. 

The scent of Aramis’s skin was different day to day: sometimes a perfume he had chosen himself, warm and sweet; sometimes one he had picked up from the skin of a woman, floral and fading; sometimes it was horse hair and leather oil; sometimes a little like this, soap and wood smoke; and sometimes, first thing in the morning, wrapped in bedsheets, just of himself.

All the while, the man’s hand rubbed him gently through his trousers, slow, leisurely circles with his palm. 

“ _There_ we go,” he whispered in Marsac’s ear. “Nothing to worry about.”

Arousal had crept up on Marsac without him noticing, and he was surprised by how hard he had become under such slight ministrations. For weeks there had seemed no room in him for even the most basic desire amongst the cloying despair that weighed on his every waking moment. But then he had not been touched, certainly not in kindness, in all that time. And he had not allowed himself to think of Aramis – not like this, not of how it was _before_ – for almost as long.

A wave of sickly guilt washed over him, and he pulled away again, though less abruptly than before. “What do I pay you?” 

It crossed his mind how foolish it was to be spending what little money he had on this, when he would need it to stretch to food and accommodation for goodness knows how long, but he had sold his horse – _not_ his, she had been Claude’s, the first he had found wandering in the forest – when he arrived in the town that morning, and he was sure he would have enough in his purse.

The man’s smile faltered only briefly. “That depends on what you want me to do for you.” He reached out and curled his fingers around the buckle of Marsac’s belt. “I could just use my mouth, if you prefer. Or you can fuck me. Or perhaps,” he said, watching Marsac’s face carefully, “you want me to fuck you.”

Marsac swallowed. There was a dark appeal to that; to being taken, to submit to a complete stranger, when throughout his life he had rarely submitted control in any sense, even to those he loved and trusted the most. He and Aramis…Aramis had taken him, on occasion, though he had always had the impression Aramis preferred it the other way. Perhaps, he had sometimes thought, actively looking for something he could not find from a woman. 

Here, he suspected the appeal of the offer had nothing to do with pleasure.

“Whatever you want,” said the man.

_Aramis backed away from him, slowly sliding the braces from his shoulders, one at a time. “I am yours for the evening, monsieur.”_

_Marsac gathered himself enough to raise an eyebrow. “The entire evening? That’s optimistic.”_

_“Don’t ruin this,” Aramis said with a laugh. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, spread his legs, and fixed Marsac with an unexpectedly heated gaze. “I’ll do anything.”_

_Marsac could only stare at him, an overwhelming rush of arousal brushing all humorous scepticism aside._

_Aramis smiled again. “Just tell me what it is you want.”_

Marsac clenched his jaw and shook the memory away. “I want to fuck you,” he said.

“Good.” He began to unfasten Marsac’s belt, and Marsac let him. “How do you want it?”

“On the bed. On your hands and knees.” He felt suddenly calm, words and actions coming to him automatically, inevitably, almost as if he was watching someone else perform them. “Do you need to prepare?”

The man shook his head, pulled the strap of the belt loose of the buckle, and in the same movement leaned up capture Marsac’s mouth. 

It was a shock, all his thought processes stunned to a halt. On a base level he realised he wanted it, wanted to keep kissing this man while he fucked him into the mattress, until they were both too far gone to do anything but gasp against each other’s mouths, and perhaps he could have this after all, something passionate and honest and real. Marsac held him firmly by the shoulders and pushed him towards the bed. 

“Wait,” he said, stopping Marsac with a hand on his chest, and the moment was gone. 

He crossed to the cabinet, retrieved a small bottle of oil from one of the drawers, then returned to Marsac and pressed it into his hand. 

Marsac looked at it. He noticed his hand was trembling slightly. “Get onto the bed,” he said.

The man followed his instruction, kneeling upright in order to unfasten his breeches and underwear. There was something jarringly businesslike about it, after the fleeting bout of passion that had preceded it. Marsac watched him, a few steps from the bed, the bottle clenched tightly in his fingers. 

“Is there a name I can call you?” the man said, turning his head to glance at Marsac over his shoulder. “Call me by his, if you like. I won’t mind.”

Marsac considered it for long enough to be disgusted at himself. “No names,” he said, and heard the roughness in his own voice, a nauseating mix of revulsion and arousal.

The man had finished with the fastenings and hooked his thumbs into the top of his breeches, and it jolted Marsac into action. He placed one knee on the bed for support, pulled both breeches and underclothes roughly down to just above the man’s knees, then pushed him forward onto his hands. 

He paused with his palm against his back, the bottom of his shirt rumpled beneath it. He was in two minds as to whether or not to slide it up, instinctively seeking bare skin – but no. If he pushed the shirt up part of him would hope to see scars there, ones he knew as intimately as his own, and would not be able to bear it when they were absent.

There was no mistaking the shake of his hands now, severe enough that it required all his concentration to open the bottle. When he did the oil spilt, splashing over his shirt and trousers, and he couldn’t dislodge the ridiculous concern that he would have to wear these clothes for the foreseeable future, for the interminable stretch of days ahead of him, without a home, without friends, without – 

The man reached back and gripped the slippery fingers of Marsac’s right hand, guiding it to his hip. “Come on,” he said, though not unkindly. “Please.”

Marsac forced himself to settle his rapid breathing. He dug the fingers of his right hand into the man’s hip, and guided his cock inside him with his left.

Often, they hadn’t fucked. The first time – the very first time they were together, weeks into an acquaintance that had overtaken Marsac with its intensity, when he had kissed Aramis without really planning to – they had ended up in Marsac’s bed, bringing each other off with their hands, and that had been enough.

When they _had_ fucked, it had often been slow, indulgent, a devoted attention to the detail of each other’s pleasure that Marsac had never previously experienced, nor had any real interest in. But it had come naturally to Aramis, and when he was with him, to Marsac as well. 

Sometimes, though, it had been like this. 

Sometimes, he had held Aramis down like this, thrusting into him at a punishing pace, feeling the muscles of his back move under his palm, or leaning forward to take a fistful of his hair – losing himself – in his own pleasure, in Aramis’s. And perhaps there was a sadistic streak in him after all, that he had enjoyed a spark of excitement seeing Aramis so debased, and so undone, at his hand.

He was still positioned awkwardly, one knee balanced on the bed and the other boot on the floor, having to shift every few seconds to maintain the angle. The man groaned, his head lowered between his arms, and it wasn’t quite right, but it was disarmingly close; if Marsac tried, if he closed his eyes and concentrated on the _feel_ of it, he could almost imagine. He drove another groan from the man, a breathed _yes_ , and the accent was wrong but exertion had lowered the timbre of his voice, and it was nearly there, nearly the same – 

Marsac came hard, a broken cry wrenched from him that threatened to turn into a name. 

He pulled out and staggered back a few paces, his limbs still thrumming with the aftershocks of orgasm, his head swimming, and the leg that had rested on the bed beginning to cramp. 

The man remained on his hands and knees for a few seconds before clambering carefully off the bed and rearranging his clothes. There was little dignity to it, and Marsac looked away, eventually crossing the room on weakened legs to retrieve his belongings. 

“You were more vigorous than I expected,” said the man, coming up behind him. He waited for Marsac to turn to him before offering a half-smile. “When you got going.”

Marsac saw now that really he looked almost nothing like Aramis. Hardly any similarity at all. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The man shrugged. It wasn’t a denial, but it wasn’t an accusation either. 

Marsac handed over the payment. He had not yet arranged a place to sleep that night, but as he had guessed, there was enough left to cover standard board and food for the next few days. 

“Thank you,” he said, more because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do than because he felt grateful in his heart. He was half way out the door when the man spoke.

“I hope you see him again.”

Marsac felt his throat tighten, but he took a deep breath, and after a moment, it passed. He didn’t turn around. “I don’t.”


End file.
